[center][h2]94 days after the Collapse[/h2] Aboard the frigate [i]Kyselica[/i][/center] [i]Hiss![/i] Golden ether flared beneath metal, flowing through it in the form of radiating heat; it was enough to make Mother Alya shrug off her overcoat. As the black iron was quenched with oil, it instantly conjured a loud hiss of steam. The aroma of charred roots flooded the room. [i]Slash! Slash! Slash![/i] Just a foot away, Alya wielded her blade with practiced ease. The knife was a well-made piece of Laonstran-forged steel, and its strictly-maintained edge sliced through flesh as easily as butter. With each strike, another strip of her blade’s target fell away. Her eyes stung from the acrid steam to her right, and blurring her view of her target. Alya ignored the distraction. To lose one’s attention while wielding a knife was a good way to lose a digit - or worse. [i]Craaack![/i] The sound of wrenching metal finally caught Alya’s attention. With a final [i]thwack![/i] she sliced the last of the meat into thin strips, and looked over. “Damn it, Zviera, don’t open the can of broth yet! That comes after browning the meat!” The Omestrian servant immediately set the can opener aside, bowing in apology. “Forgive me mistress. I’m finding it hard to focus…” “It’s the onions,” Alya replied. “They’re making my eyes water, too.” Zviera raised his head, sparing a long look at the vial of golden ether plugged into the stove. Alya didn’t rebuke him for the distraction - just twelve hours earlier, that ether had been flowing in his veins, after all. “Of course, mistress.” “Just keep an eye on the pan and add these strips of meat once the mushrooms have browned. It won’t take long, so be careful not to overcook it!” With her wayward servant straightened out, Alya turned her attention to the herbs. The dried, crumbled leaves of thyme and dill elicited a sigh. She would prefer fresh herbs, of course, but sometimes sacrifices had to be made in the name of practicality… In her head, Albina’s familiar voice silently chided her. [i]It’s not the onions. He was in the ether extraction machine all night. He could barely stand this morning even after Father Boris healed him. Obviously he can’t focus.[/i] Alya giggled to herself, slightly. Obviously he’d been ether-drained - where else could the precious golden fluid have come from? She didn’t bother to answer Albina, instead looking towards Zviera with a smile. “It’s alright. All you need to do is watch and stir. Once you’re done with that, I’ll mince the meat for the [i]pelmeni[/i] while you prepare the dough.” She paused, though, watching the exhausted man as he stirred the onions and mushrooms. Zviera nodded silently, focusing on the rapidly-browning mushrooms. His golden eyes appeared sunken back in his head, dull and listless with dark, puffy skin drooping under them. His hands trembled slightly, and he was already sweating and panting. He offered no complaint about the work, despite it all. She smiled. She liked that about him. It seemed like so few Omestrians knew their place, these days, and even fewer were content with it. After just a couple of minutes, Alya held the wooden cutting board up, scraping the strips of meat into the pan. “I know you’re tired, Zviera. But it’ll be good for your recovery to be in a warm room and move around. It keeps the blood flowing. And I’ll save you some of the leftovers! It’s doubtless going to be better for your recovery than simple nutrient mash.” With that, she leaned over and kissed his cheek. Even a slave deserved the occasional reward for loyal service, after all. “Thank you, mistress.” Zviera hesitated. “...may I ask you something?” The question was just a formality, of course - Alya routinely spoke freely when she and her servant were alone. Alya nodded in reply, so he continued. “Why do you cook for the Warband and the crew of the [i]Kyselica[/i]? I mean no complaint, just, I always understood this to be the work of men like me.” “Because I love them, Zviera!” She could see he didn’t get it, though, even before he asked anything further. How frustrating. So few people understand such a simple concept. How could she possibly explain it any more simply than that? “But…” Zviera frowned, pausing to focus on the meat, ensuring each piece browned thoroughly without burning. Alya allowed a few minutes’ lapse in the conversation. Her servant wasn’t a very good cook even at full strength, let alone nearly falling asleep standing up. No reason to distract him. Zviera only continued once he was satisfied with the state of the meat, carefully removing it from the heat. “...I am doing the same work, mistress. That doesn’t mean-” “Ah!” Alya said, with a wag of her finger. “That’s where you’re wrong, Zviera! You and I aren’t doing the same work at all!” Zviera looked from the pan to the cutting board and back, in visible confusion. “Right, deglaze the pan with virrika and then we’ll add the broth.” By now, the pungent smell of cooking meat and spices filled the air, making Alya’s mouth water. The pan hissed with vigor as a cup of top-shelf virrika hit the hot metal, evaporating the alcohol within almost immediately. Alya waited a moment for the noise to die down, as Zviera gently scraped the burned pieces of meat and onion into the liquid. “You’re a cook. I’m a [i]chef[/i], Zviera.” Zviera kept his eyes firmly fixed on his work as he replied. “I don’t understand, mistress. We are both cooking.” She pondered how to respond. With the exception of some of her Inquisition peers, Omestrians weren’t the cleverest or smartest people. No need to launch into an explanation that might go over his head, she decided. “If you paint my bedroom wall, and I go and paint a painting, we’re both painting. Does that mean we’re doing the same thing?” “No, but…” His brow furrowed in thought. Albina spoke up again, determined as always to ruin Alya’s good cheer. [i]You’re not smarter than him just because you’re educated, well-rested, and in full possession of your own ether. If you were smarter, you wouldn’t throw a feast when everyone is on reduced rations.[/i] Oh, what would [i]she[/i] know anyway? Alya set her knife aside, clinging to her good mood defiantly. “Aside from teaching [i]you[/i],” she added with a poke to his chest, “how to cook, what I’m doing is an [i]art![/i] These are classical Varyan dishes! We may have had to substitute icekin meat for the more traditional beef and pork, but sacrifices need to be made, and we’re otherwise preparing these things according to Varyan tradition.” She paused, glancing at the thawing filo dough. “Well, maybe with some T'saraen mixed in there. Those sheets of dough are for a dish called [i]baklava[/i], which we’ll be making as well. Because the dough is so thin, it doesn’t require a long time to bake. We have to conserve energy at a time like this, after all!” [i]Take that[/i], she thought back to Albina. Zviera glanced back at the vial of golden ether. “...of course, mistress,” he said, dubiously. His obvious recalcitrance elicited a giggle. “Well, we [i]do[/i] need to eat, and I’m going to lose my mind if I have to subsist on nutrient mash alone. Besides, this serves another, more important function! Aside from maybe military conquest, I can think of no better way to honor the Ravenous Lord than with a good meal, artfully prepared, shared with His chosen warriors! Don’t you wish to honor Lord Varya in a time like this?” [i]You’re a fool. Varya will abandon you just like he abandoned me. There is no reason in praying to a god who does not care.[/i] She sighed. “Once the food is ready, we’re going to gather a war council and discuss how to proceed from here. You were in the ether extractor when I did the last assessment of the [i]Kyselica[/i]’s hull, so maybe you didn’t see…” She paused. Well, there went her good mood. “It really [i]is[/i] important that we make sound decisions and please Lord Varya, Zviera. The hull can’t repel icekin attacks indefinitely, and we can’t even run the hearth system anymore. To be honest, if I weren’t absolutely needed on the defense, I’d take a turn in that terrible machine myself to keep Mother Faina’s aegis up longer. Most of that ether we collected isn’t going to be used on the stove - it’s for Faina.” Zviera’s voice was so faint, it was hard to hear over the bubbling of the pan full of broth. “...are we going to die here, mistress?” Alya smiled, resting a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it for reassurance. “Lord Varya will provide. Have a little faith. And don’t forget to add the mustard while the broth is simmering.” [hr] The large man sat in the middle of a spartan cell, his eyes closed as he listened to the crying of the dying. Around him, bodies, many bodies covered by blue and white sheets, some sheets covering up to five men or several sheets covering a pile. Most of the sheets had red stains blotching each one. The door in front of him, locked with the warning written in blood, 'Restricted : Officers Only.' "In the morning of the light, in the fuel of our bodies, in the strength in our hearts, in the goodness of our souls. Our comrades fall, and the light shines on the few survivors here... if I do not cast you to the world then I have failed my job, and you all… for now I can only give the light that remains from your dying moments back to the world… but soon I shall give your bodies.” The door would open and the bloody priest would step out, and his hands held together with light between them. "I must see the sky!" To one side of the room, Zviera silently entered, keeping his head low and his dull golden eyes fixed firmly on the floor. He knew better than to interrupt any religious or spiritual observance - disrespect to Lord Varya remained the only offense for which his mistress had ever physically struck him. Everyone knew he was Mother Alya’s servant, and his presence was enough to silently demand attention without needing to verbally interrupt his superiors. He waited to be acknowledged. He would look to his side and nod to the individual standing there, “Servant of Mother Alya, would you wish to take me to the defenses… I require to see the sky to shine the light upon the day, then I will begin doing my work in the infirmary. So let us get this dirty work finished for the day so it does not linger on the mind.” Zviera shook his head. “We’ll need to go outside to board the Kyselica, where Mother Alya requests your presence, sir.” “Do you know what for?” Father Vladivosi turned slowly toward the bulkhead and began his march forward past Zviera to the stairs to the deck above. “But come… the sky first, then I will go to meet with your master.” He nodded his head, reluctantly. “Yes, sir. Mother Alya wishes your presence at a war council to discuss…” He didn’t finish the thought. He didn’t need to. What else could a war council be called to discuss, if not the Icekin and the camp’s failing defenses? “That, and…” He hesitated. “My mistress would also like you to taste her baklava, sir.” Father Vladivosi raised an eyebrow and started up the stairs, the light in his hand shining lightly, “Baklava, I am surprised we have any left.” he said as he moved down the hall to where the breach in the ships hull was. “But I am surprised they desire me for a war council, I have barely fought in any sense and I know that I am a superior to most of those here… but that is why, but let us hope it is quick, I must tend to those wounded, and maybe melt the ice once more to make sure of our lines… but not a moment longer.” Vladivosi would finish before the Father entered the open space of the breach in the ship, moving past several soldiers that were coming from their watch. The Omestrian led the way out of the ship, visibly having some difficulty moving around. It was no secret he’d been “volunteered” by Alya for ether extraction, as an emergency measure. In fact, it was only due to Father Boris’ own healing that very morning that the man was even ambulatory. Despite being more suited to a bed than trekking across ice and snow, Zviera voiced no complaint. “My mistress says there will not soon be a...shortage of wounded to attend to.” He held his hand out, and the light from his hand maybe went a foot above him, and he sighed softly as his head leaned to face up into the sky. “I am sorry this is all I can give… but it is the last in me.” He started walking towards the [i]Kyselica[/i], his eyes now baggy and sagged. His body slowly lumbering towards as the rags that encompassed his feet ragged across the snow. He looked to the staff he placed in the ground in the center of the three ships, and took it as he walked past. “As long as there are wounded I know there are people alive… if people are alive then I shall continue to stand, I would have collapsed already of exertion if there were not, or whatever is said about that my mind is blank...” Zviera just nodded, not offering an opinion. He headed not to the briefing hall, or any large seating area, where a war council may be expected - but instead to the officer’s mess. The [i]real[/i] officer’s mess had long since been crushed in the [i]Kyselica[/i]’s impact, but a storage room and some furniture had made for an ersatz replacement. Before they could enter, the savory smell of cooked meat and spices wafted in the air. Zviera held the door open for Father Boris. “Mistress, I have returned-” “Boris!” Alya’s discordantly chipper voice greeted. Before the man could possibly react, a fork with a steaming piece of sauce-covered meat emerged at the end of her hand, popping itself directly into his mouth. “Taste this. It’s beef Stroganoff.” “Alya.” the tired man would speak as he entered, immediately finding a mat to sit on rather then a chair of any sorts. “Just let me sit here for a moment, I just committed three more memories of man to the world. Maybe this luxury will allow me to burn another hole through the ice to commit the bodies of the ninety two inside my room.” “They served Lord Varya well, and deserve to be honored,” Alya replied, seriously. After a moment’s reflection, though, she brightened. “It’s nice to think my cooking can help that much! You’re sweet to say that.” She knelt down and kissed his cheek. “They did, but for now I shall wait until the other third of the occupants of the fleet are healed or dead… healing or easing them is what I should be saving myself for, the flare of light in the dawn morning is “ He thought to himself for a moment, turned his head towards the woman, “A bowl? Of this food I would enjoy, is it a last meal since it smells so fine?” he asked with a slight smile on his face. “Don’t talk like that,” she admonished, arms folded. “It’s just a treat for Lord Varya’s champions. I can think of no better way to honor the Ravenous Lord than with a good meal, after all! In times like these, it’s of utmost importance that we keep faith.” “That is something you should know I will never lose Mother Alya, but do you not think that the standard men are the ones who need to keep faith more?” Vladivosi asked softly, “though I do believe that we should all have first servings, since you are the one who made this, I am the one… who commits the dead, and the rest keep us alive.” “So I am the first to this meeting?” “I’ve been here all morning!” Alya replied. “And anyway, I would never forget the men. Here, try this.” She produced a small dumpling, a typical Varyan [i]pelmeni[/i]. “If I were being most traditional I would leave them uncooked and frozen...but I’ll freeze them fully cooked. They’re for the men on watch. During an Icekin wave, they can’t exactly leave their posts to replenish their strength. Something portable that can be eaten cold if need be will help.” He looked up at her, and took it from her slowly before eating it quickly, and his stomach rumbled harshly. “If it wasn’t for the other inquisitors, and officers I would engorge myself on whatever is left of that.” he said as he looked up at her. “But with more men in my care… there are less on the defenses, I wish for the others to be here before we indulge ourselves with your dumplings.” he said yawning. “Just as long as you save room for my baklava, Boris.” Alya turned. “Zviera, go and escort the rest of the Warband...”